We were served by the hostess, who had large blue eyes, delicate hands, and the sweet face of a nun.

It was not yet bedtime, and it was too dark to work, so we went to the church.
This is small, although it has a nave and side-aisles like a city church.

Short, thick stone pillars support its wooden roof, painted in blue, from which hang miniature vessels, votive offerings that were promised during raging storms.

Spiders creep along their sails and the riggings are rotting under the dust.

No service was being held, and the lamp in the choir burned dimly in its cup filled with yellow oil; overhead, through the open windows of the darkened vault, came broad rays of white light and the sound of the wind rustling in the tree-tops.
A man came in to put the chairs in order, and placed two candles in an iron chandelier riveted to the stone pillar; then he pulled into the middle of the aisle a sort of stretcher with a pedestal, its black wood stained with large white spots.